To be Left Behind
by myselfonly
Summary: PART ONE OF TWO. A series of interconnected moments through Legolas' life, and through those whose lives he has touched. Bit of an angst-a-thon, I'll be honest. To be concluded tomorrow. Written in celebration of the anniversary of The Silence in the Song, because I'm sentimental that way.


**Here it is; the first of my two anniversary oneshots. **

**For those of you unfamiliar with my previous work (greetings!) this is a small celebration, as my multichap - The Silence in the Song - is a year old tomorrow. Since we as a species have a thing for celebrating milestones, who am I to miss 'Silence's birthday?! If you enjoy this then please, feel free to have a browse through my back catalogue. I'm always delighted if just one more person enjoys what I've created.**

**These started off as a lot of very short fics, but I detected a few themes and tinkered around a bit, and now they are two *slightly* connected and much larger bodies of work. It's all written in a style that is COMPLETELY out of my comfort zone, so I hope I haven't made too much of a hash of things, and it's all a bit angsty to be honest, but hey... nice to meet you, I'm MyselfOnly.**

**Thanks to Vanessa, who wanted Legolas and Thranduil, Bourbon Rose and Cheekybeak who both requested a bit of Faelwen and Legolas time (although it was Cheekybeak's second choice - sorry love) Thanks for the suggestions and apologies to those whose requests haven't appeared. Maybe it'll appear tomorrow! :)**

**In a tiny bit of seriousness before I continue: my ongoing thanks to all of you who continue to stick with me. I've lost a lot of regular reviewers over the last year which is endlessly sad, but there are a solid few of you who always, always have time to drop me a line and give some feedback. Things have been tough in RL recently so your support has meant a lot to me. I dedicate these to you guys.**

**On with the show!**

* * *

~{O}~

Almárean struggles with his horse as she bites and bunches under him, fighting the bit and ready to flee. He can see her ears flickering this way and that, can feel her fear and anxiety but he has no time to reassure her, no chance to brush calmness into her solid neck. There is a storm raging all about them and all he can hear is shouting, trees roaring in the wind, the rain battering them.

She wheels and dances and he does all that he can to keep her in control, to trust in her fortitude and experience. She is a good horse, a fine thing, and he has other things – more important things – to be concentrating on.

The trees are full of elves, and there is death upon the air. He has ridden hard much of the night to come here and he is not alone: he is not the only Sindar by far but the majority of his company are Sylvan; the _laegrim_ that do not ride upon horse but rather the wind, or so it seems. They are wild and cold and they dismiss him almost completely, because he is not one of them. They have more in common with the storm than they do with any of his own kind, but he needs them… by Iluvatar he needs them so desperately!

The panic has not left him since he left the palace, so far behind them now. It is blinding; all that he can focus upon, all that he knows. The wind whips his hair into his eyes, he can smell rain and sodden loam, the tang of trees and leaf but all that he can hear in his mind is a constant shriek of fear.

_Where? Where is he?_

They search together, Sindar and wild Sylvan, and although he can hear the latter calling to one another in the trees he does not understand everything that they say. They are secular, their ranks closed to those not of their own but he trusts them. The Sylvan elves laid claim to the young prince of the wood long ago, and he trusts them in this more than he trusts his own kin, perhaps. They are not soldiers, they should not have come at all, but they are here.

They search; every tree and nook, every bole and cranny. They call for him, they call and he can hear voices and whistles above the wind, but there is nothing in return.

A hunting trip. A simple hunting trip and he was not there. He was not there when he was needed and curse it all… curse the darkness, because they had not imagined it so close. None of them had thought it so near to home, none had expected such a thing but he should have… he should have been there.

_Legolas._

The storm rages in the trees, it is pitch black but Almárean barely notices a thing; the fear, it is more than he can bear. He can smell blood upon the air; orc and elf, wrong and foul. He can smell it but he ignores it all, because he has something to do… something so precious to find.

He hears a call, a shout. He hears it and spurs his mount onward, and bless her mighty heart she responds instantly, surging forward toward the cry. Through wind tossed wood and brush he rides, the rain hammering into his face and eyes. The trees groan and complain about him, agitated and worried, calling out their _rat-tat-tat_ as their wood is taxed beyond its giving, creaking and shifting as best they can beneath the onslaught. His own breath gasps in his ears because he is terrified… _so very terrified_ at what he is going to find.

The prince's guard are dead, slain, and there is no sign of Legolas. If he is alive, if he has survived this slaughter he is too young, too small to be left alone and for so long. Bodies… there are so many of them.

_A hunting trip, it was only a hunting trip!_

Almárean arrives where a group of elves are clustered together and he all but falls from his horse. They stand about; unsure and agitated, waiting for him and he does not understand, he does not understand why they are just stood this way. There is one bleeding – a rag clutched to his arm – and others are scratched and scuffed, ragged and alarmed.

More orcs?

It cannot be; these elves are the _laegrim_; skilled and able, and these are defensive wounds. All of them bear them.

Another simply stands, bewildered, and gestures toward a hollow beneath a tree. The warrior has nothing to say, nothing to suggest, but Almárean is toward the hollow without a single thought. It is silent within the darkness and the wind whips his hair, burns his skin with the cold and the rain but he feels none of it.

"Legolas?" he calls, and then he is almost barrelled to the floor. A small thing – so small – launches itself at him and into his arms. Summer gold hair – filthy and knotted – falls soft beneath his hands. He clutches the tiny elfling tight into his chest and there is nothing… _nothing_ more important than this. He feels sick.

The elfling is shaking, a thrilling knot of fear and rage, and he hears the tiny crown prince of Mirkwood finally drop his blade as he falls into his arms. The child does not cry – he is too strong for that – but he is a maelstrom, just like the storm. Almárean's arms encompass him entirely and he feels relief, so whole and huge that he can barely catch his breath. His eyes close, his breath hitches and he feels warm, hitching breath upon his neck where a small face is buried.

"They left me," a thin voice whispers, angry and high. "They left me, Almárean. I knew you would come."

**~{O}~**

The summer night is thick and heavy, a promise of storms that do not come. The stars are shrouded by low, sullen clouds and nothing stirs, nothing breathes.

The air is thick with the scent of the wood: tree and soil, sap and flower blossom, but it is heady and thick and cloying. There is no respite from the heat and the forest has a sick odour about it; stagnation and rot and something else… something dark and unnatural.

Elves move through the trees and upon the ground, slow and hidden and secretive. They do not speak, they make no sound at all as they creep toward a river that is sluggish and stinking. Eyes glint, hard and intent, and every single face is a pale marble mask. They stop, pause, and hide as one. They blend with the night and hold as still as a breath, but not all of them.

"We cannot reach them," a low voice speaks, elf quiet and for elf ears. He is a Sindar: tall, straight and serious with a dark fall of hair. He is the captain of these elves, humourless and hard.

Across the river is a band of orcs. Their blades are serrated and filthy, their shadows misshapen and ugly. They are vicious, terrible things and there are entirely too many; too many to be taken by so few elves.

Beyond them, trapped and cornered, shelter a small handful of this elven squad. The orcs do not know that they are there but they will, and there is no getting past… no reaching them at all.

"We can," speaks another voice.

Nostarion – the dark haired captain – says nothing in return but he does not need to; his face speaks for him. He sneers, a cold twist of his mouth, and he does not look at the speaker: a young sylvan – _laegrim_ – unrefined and wild, unsuited to combat. His untested presence is unwanted, resented, but the golden haired stray is the prince of these woods and favoured by their general.

"You should not be here at all," Nostarion hisses, "I ordered that you and your scouts stay back, behind our lines."

He turns, a dismissive look full of scorn at what he sees. The prince is wild, no prince at all: he and his _laegrim_ friends have spent their youth raised by the woods, no more tame than wolves. He is golden haired and fey eyed, twitchy and liable to moments where the sound of the wind or the call of the wood is too much to bear. They are a liability, weak and untrained.

Legolas, for that is his name, eyes Nostarion with a look that speaks nothing at all. He is unreadable with eyes the same cold, proud blue as his father, but he is young. Too young to be here. They all are.

"If you send elves in, they will die," says the prince, levelly and coldly. "If we leave now, Orthorien and the others will die. We can retrieve them, and if we fail what difference does it make to you whether or not a few _laegrim_ are lost?"

"To me? Little," Nostarion tells him flatly, "but you are not just _laegrim_, you are the son of my king. If you have not the sense to keep your own hide in one piece think of those that follow you. None of you listen, none of you follow orders: you are children and you will get us killed. If you go and they follow you they will die, and it will be upon your hands."

"If we follow him, it is by choice," comes another voice. Nostarion hisses, furious at having been crept up on; it has been centuries upon counting since he has been taken by surprise and his anger is tight and incandescent, barely restrained. It is the one with the dark red hair and green eyes, the one that has followed the prince out of the wood and into uniform. He simply shrugs, unconcerned at the look he is being given, but there is a hardness in his eyes as well.

_Loyalty… it is loyalty that he sees. Fervent and oak strong, unwavering. _

There are others there too, and he has heard none of them approach. They are wilful, so very strange. They will follow their prince wherever he leads, not because he orders it but because they wish it. The woodland prince has lead them out of the trees. They have picked up bow and blade and wear them upon their backs; a symbol of their affiliation, a thing to set them apart. They are _laegrim_ warriors, and they follow only one.

"You will return to the rear of the troop," he tells them, low and dangerous. "You will be silent, you will not speak again, and when we return to the palace it is there that you will remain. There is no place here for your kind."

Nostarion turns and melts back into the dark, a ghost in the thick summer air. His words hang heavily, scornful and dismissive, but Legolas simply creeps further forward; pale eyes seeing past the distance and the darkness: out where the orcs roam, and beyond that their friends. He sniffs, wipes moisture from his forehead but it serves only to make his face all the dirtier.

"I hate him," Idhren sighs, quite aware that the captain can likely still hear them. He watches the Sindar go for a heartbeat before turning his attention upon his friend, curious eyes trying to read him – to read his intent – but failing miserably. "He is our captain though, and you heard his words. We should fall back, lest we trip and impale ourselves upon our blades and require rescue from the proper elves."

Legolas still says nothing, still does not move, and Idhren smiles to himself – a small thing quickly hidden.

"You are not listening to anyone, are you?"

"I am not deaf Idhren," Legolas sighs, soft and annoyed. "Fetch Faelwen and Sidhion, the four of us will be sufficient. Alagos and the others are to cover our absence, and do not tell Almárean we are going anywhere; he will cause a fuss and will not let us go."

"You would defy Nostarion? Ionwë will have you locked away for a long time for it."

Legolas turns at this, sees the smile upon his friend's face – _exasperation, pride_ – and his own face twists into a wolfish grin. It is dark and excited, ready for violence, but it does not last for long. The look that replaces it is determined, stubborn as the tides themselves and it sits strangely upon a face so young.

"We will not leave them behind, Idhren."

**~{O}~**

"You left them behind!" she cries, but it is a laugh; bright and clear and loud.

They run across a meadow of flowers; waist high golden grass and swaying blooms of yellow and red. Birds startle at their flight, their voices call out into an unbroken azure sky and Legolas drags Faelwen by the hand. They stumble and smile – no grace to their movement – and he grabs her, wheels her about and kisses her there in a fragrant meadow; calloused archer's hands soft upon her cheeks.

Breathless they are apart, smiling she reprimands him.

"You left them," she murmurs, the taste of him green and gold upon her lips. She sees nothing but a summer blue gaze and a quick smile; small, it is such a small thing, but so important.

"There are no rules," he reminds her with a grin sharp, mischievous and quick. He laughs and darts away, her hand clutched in his, and she could easily break away from it but she does not. The others will not look for them here; the others will not leave the trees intentionally, and they do not believe anyone else would either. They play games – dangerous games – but they are _laegrim_ and it is their way. It is Hunt and Seek, and Legolas has never lost yet.

They fall to the ground, they lie side by side with shoulders touching and stare up into the sky: huge and endless, frightening and bright. He threads his fingers into hers and she smiles just as brightly as the sky.

"They have never found me here," he tells her with a smile, but she cannot help but tilt her head; twist it until she is glaring at him.

"You are lying down in a field," she is horrified, "this is the secret to you winning all of these years?"

"Only sometimes," he admits. "Is it not grand?"

He gestures briefly upward, as though she could not unravel his meaning by herself. The sky makes her feel small… too small. She sees the billowing clouds sail past, clear cut and huge and yes, it is quite grand, but she is used to the tree canopy above her head and it makes her feel exposed.

Faelwen tightens her grip, their fingers so tightly woven that it hurts, and when he tilts his head to meet her gaze it is worth it. Legolas does not look at anyone the way that he looks at her… not never.

It is intent, so heavy she can hardly bear it but it is because he sees her... truly _sees_ her: rude and uncouth and raw, raised by the sylvan folk in her _talan_ with muddy feet and a grass stained skirt. Bow trained and knife skilled because there was no other choice. There was never any choice.

Their courtship has been one of snatched moments of peace between patrols, walks in the starlight whilst their exhausted friends slumber and rare moments such as this – hidden and exciting. There is no time for elves such as them, but there are moments to be found, no matter how brief.

Legolas turns over, shifting until they are face to face and him lying on his belly. Faelwen turns as well until they are both propped upon elbows, barely a breath apart. He tucks a flower behind her ear and after a moment she does the same to him, and he leaves it there. His forehead furrows slightly, the smile dropping from his face. He is troubled, and it takes a long time for him to put word to his worries.

"I leave for the south tomorrow," he tells her. "Ionwë has put us on different patrols... I will be gone until the spring."

She is silent for a long time, his words making no sense at all. When she replies her voice is thick and confused, but Faelwen has always been the quickest to understand things, to see right to the heart of matters. "We always run together, we have always been on the same patrols. We are being split apart."

"Aye," he nods. "We are."

Faelwen pushes herself to her feet and swipes angrily at acorn brown hair, fallen loose and trailing about her face. She paces, goes as if to stalk away but changes her mind. Her actions are anxious, a storm in her heart, and when she turns she is unsurprised to see him right there; stood right before her, patient and quiet.

"You will be dead in a week without me there," she snaps angrily, but she does not look angry. She looks frightened. "Is it because I am Sylvan?"

He catches her hands in his, clasps them gently like a caught bird.

"My father does not care who I court, Faelwen," he tells her honestly. "We are not highborn elves – neither noble nor wise. I am the son of a Sylvan, it is not because of your birth."

He need not explain, because she understands… by the stars she understands perfectly why they are being separated, but everything in her fights against it. Her blood sings and rages because of it, but her age and experience holds her in one place; rooted to the floor and as still as an oak.

The darkness is so near now, their borders shrink day by day and mourning has come upon their realm. There are few days such as these left for sunlight and play, for running in the woods. It is frivolous and distracting, and their games are no longer games; they train and they fight and they are not children any more. Now they are warriors, and there is no time for courtship for elves such as them.

"The spring is a long way from where we are," she breathes, "and the south… it is so dark."

He pulls her close and she lets him, a flower in his hair but all that she can smell is him: wind and wood and sunlight. He is warm and solid, so alive and so strong but not unbreakable. She closes her eyes. "You must be careful… swear to it Legolas. You will be careful and return, and things will be just the same between us when you return."

"Things will always be the same between us," he promises, a fierce breath of sound into her hair. "I swear it."

Faelwen closes her eyes, squeezes them tightly and fists her hand in his tunic. She wishes to believe it the way that he believes it, she wishes it so badly, but she knows… she knows it the same way that she knows the changes in the weather or the path of a bird's flight.

She is being left behind.

**~{O}~**

At the summit of the great city of Minas Tirith there is a garden.

It is not very large but it is well tended, with rose bushes and fragrant flowers and small bowers where one might sit in solitary though amongst the clouds. There are lawns for sitting upon and beautiful statues, and a place just for standing where the entirety of Gondor can be seen, rolling out into forever.

It is here that Legolas stands; stiff and rigid, wind tangled and silent. He looks out upon the city, each ring of it laid out below him and he does not see any of it. The vista is awe inspiring, the Pelennor endless and green with huge clouds of billowing white cut sharp against the sky, but there is nothing of interest to see today. Nothing at all.

The city is quiet: its standards flying low, its streets bare. It is a city in mourning.

"You should not be out here," comes a voice, but Legolas does not startle at it. He stands just as he has stood for hours and Gimli joins him at his side, looking out because he cannot bear to look at the elf at his side. "The Queen and Eldarion need you, my friend."

It is not said unkindly, and Legolas glances down. Gimli looks exhausted; care worn and haunted. There is too much grey in his beard, too many lines upon his face. His years are written upon him, each one of them standing stark and bare today. Legolas closes his eyes and looks away.

"I cannot bear it, Gimli," he breathes, so tired. "All of the grandeur of it; the visiting kings and nobles, the songs and stories. They sing of the king that they had, not the Estel that I knew."

Gimli nods and looks to his feet, rubbing the heel of his hand into one eye wearily. His shoulders slump, and it is the first time today that he has allowed himself to feel his grief. It is the first time that he has felt able to, stood in the wind with nothing but the sky and his elf. It is heavy… such a heavy thing.

"He was our brother," he agrees, "but he did not just belong to us."

"I know that Gimli. I am sorry that I left you."

"As you should be; the place is full of elves and I had to climb a thousand stairs to find you. I cannot do this without you my friend. I cannot."

Their gaze meets and Legolas smiles, but although it is meant to be comforting it is an empty and hollow thing. He is marble, carven by grief and confused… _so very confused_ by it all. He barely knows what to say or how to act, but it is just the two of them here and they have never had to pretend a single thing with one another.

"The Song carries on Gimli, it has not changed at all. There is no silence for mannish kings or elven friends and it seems wrong, it feels as though something should be different. Estel is gone and nothing has changed."

"You grieve as we grieve," the dwarf murmurs. "It always feels this way, to me. I will never see him again ever in my life and it is agony, yet the sun still rose this morning. There has been a dawn every day since we lost our brother and it is wrong that it should shine upon a world without him in it."

Gimli's voice cracks, wavers, and he hangs his head low to hide the wetness upon his face. He has the look of someone broken, a marionette with its strings cut, struggling even to breathe beneath the weight he carries. He swipes at his face.

"He left us behind, Legolas. He left us, and I cannot bear even a moment more of this."

He shifts, just a hair, until their shoulders are touching. One upright and a thousand leagues away, the other bent and shattered. Neither says anything more – because there are no words for any of this – but they have never needed words before.

The sun continues to rise.

**~{O}~**

"_Ada_ you are hurting my head!"

"Then you must keep still and stop fighting me. Princes do not have mice living in their hair."

"There are no mice living in my hair," is the hissed reply, "and _naneth_ lets me brush it myself."

Thranduil grits his teeth even harder, Legolas scowls even deeper and a thick silence descends upon the room.

The prince is filthy. His shoeless feet are muddy and grass stained, his face barely recognisable and the king of the woodland elves is considering simply burning his clothes. It is the first time that he has seen his son in days and as ever, they are already cross with one another.

"Your _naneth_ is away," he finally grits out, calm enough to risk speaking again. "You are too old to be doing this Legolas, you do not live in the _talans_ any longer and princes bathe upon occasion."

"Idhren's father does not pull his hair out when he bathes."

"Idhren's father does not have you as a son."

Despite himself, Legolas stifles a laugh. It is tiny and shows as little more than a hitch of his shoulders but Thranduil hears it in any case, and all of his annoyance melts away in a heartbeat. He closes his eyes and takes a moment from trying to wrestle a comb through thatched golden silk, pinching one thumb and forefinger to his forehead. He takes two narrow shoulders into his hands and turns the elfling around, and of course Legolas has painted a scowl right back across his face again.

The two stare at one another, and Thranduil cannot help but feel helpless beneath such a terrible fury. His son is slight for his age, still so small but growing so fast. He is a wolf cub, fierce and wild and he has never known such a strong willed creature in all of his days. He has no idea where the child gets it from.

"Perhaps I should send you to live with the trolls," he sighs, "they might have you."

"They might, since they are bald and you have scalped me. I am certain I must look like one."

Thranduil laughs, entirely unable to help himself, and although Legolas maintains his fierce countenance there is certainly a softening of his face at the sound of it. He rolls his eyes quite dramatically, slipping out of reach and over to where a steaming bathtub awaits him. He begins an endless production of preparing for it, and the king sinks into a high back chair. He is thoughtful, a hundred leagues away but the elfling hums to himself quite unaware of the mood.

"Are you unhappy here Legolas?" Thranduil asks, but once he has asked it he wishes that he had not. It is a heavy question so late at night but they spend so little time together of late, and he has been wondering it for a long time. Happy elflings do not escape into the wood every night and sleep on balconies. Happy elflings do not fight their fathers on every single matter… every single decision and action.

Legolas takes the question entirely in his stride, barely pausing in his heroic attempt to spend as long as possible doing unnecessary things. He is folding his ruined shirt quite carefully, and shrugs one small, pale shoulder.

"I miss the _talan_, I miss my aunts. Now I must do lessons and learn to speak correctly – if you have ever heard of such a thing – and wear boots and not run or stay away for too long. But I am happy to be with you and _nana_. Perhaps we could all go and live outside together? You would be happier if you did not have to read so many books… I was happier when I did not."

He turns his head hopefully, and Thranduil cannot help the smile that rises unbidden across his face.

"The idea is not without merit, my son, but I am king now. I must sleep in a bed."

Legolas snorts and returns to his ministrations.

"Kings can sleep wherever they like, if you wish to sleep in a _talan_ you should be allowed. I will tell them if you are afraid of being scolded." The elfling pauses for a while as though letting the thought sink in, but then he continues: "I know why I had to come back home _ada_. If I must be a prince then I will be a clever prince, and I will be the best at being a prince just as you are best at being king, but I do not like being inside so much."

Legolas sighs then, as though realising that he cannot put it off any longer. He climbs into the bath and starts to clean himself industriously, a furious look of concentration upon his face as though resolved to getting things over and done with as soon as possible. He is still very thin, very narrow and small, but Thranduil sees something so different in him of late.

He is becoming quieter, more serious, and although he is still – and probably ever will be – as stubborn as the mountain itself, it has begun to form into a will of iron. Legolas does everything that he sets his mind to, learns swiftly and practises endlessly. The challenge is still in capturing his imagination enough for him to _wish_ to do anything other than running feral in the woods, but there is time.

Thranduil rises so that he can grant his son privacy, but before he has got far a voice stops him.

"You need not go."

Thranduil turns, surprised, and instead of an abashed face or a hopeful expression he sees only honesty. Legolas' pale cheeks are flushed slightly by the heat of the water and his hair is plastered to his face, un-braided and the mirror of his own. His son is so young – so very young still – but the look he is given is that of an adult. His company is requested, not demanded, and how can he deny such a thing?

Legolas is starting to leave him behind, it will not be long before such moments are lost and how can he refuse the offer? How can he leave?

He settles back into the chair with a small smile, and although they do not speak again it is comfortable and peaceable. Thranduil takes time for thought, his son begins to hum to himself again.

Legolas is starting to leave him behind, but _ai_… what a future he has before him.


End file.
